


Scarred

by sasha_b



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-22
Updated: 2011-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-20 15:45:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's behind Erik's turtlenecks?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scarred

Black is his usual chosen color, although as Charles leans back in his chair, watching Erik’s long fingers on the chessboard, he realizes the other man is wearing tan pants. But he’s also wearing the same black turtleneck he’s been wearing for several days now – not in a row, he also realizes, but the man has a serious dearth of clothing choices.

 _How shallow,_ he thinks, and Erik looks up, the fire crackling, the bright snapping orange flames picking up the gold and scarlet in Erik’s hair. “What’s shallow?”

Charles blinks; he hadn’t realized he’s been projecting so hard. But maybe it’s that it’s Erik, and the other man can hear him regardless. Charles would like to think so –

He swallows the last dregs of his brandy and stands, hands shoved in his pockets. “Nothing. I’m just musing. Did you want more – ” but Erik’s laughing, the rough lowness of the sound enough to make Charles turn and stare at him, his hands desperately wanting to raise to his temple. He knows everything there is to know about Erik Lehnsherr, but he wants to hear it from Erik’s lips. Not from stealing his way into the lockbox that Erik makes of his mind.

Leaning back, Erik watches Charles watching him, and lets the laugh drift off. He tugs at his collar; his face is flushed, although he tells himself it’s from the drink. “You were looking at me, Charles. What is so shallow that you can’t tell me outloud? Come come, my friend, I’m no wilting daisy.” His lips twitch but his face remains tight and blood-blushed, the thoughts that had been bouncing around his head while he was supposed to be focusing on the game at hand – Charles always had the skill and the love to beat him at it, but sometimes the other man was genial enough to pretend he didn’t – were dark and lonely and Erik didn’t want to be there. He wanted to be _here,_ in the room with Charles and the odd comfort that rose with the fire and the drink and the expressive blue eyes that watched him as though he were the most special and delicate thing in the world.

Erik rumbles a laugh again; he’s anything but. Delicate as a machine gun, soft as a metal table, weak as a silver coin that lives in his pocket. He cocks his head and narrows his green eyes, even as Charles hems and haws and twists his red lips.

“Why do you cover up?”

That was the last thing Erik expects to hear. His mouth collapses to a thin line as he crosses his arms over his chest. _What are you hiding from me?_

“You say you know everything, Charles. Don’t choose to lie to me now,” Erik snaps back, pushing out of the chair, his voice soft as a wind rising before the storm that will inevitably follow. _Icy rain pounds at his skull, and he stands in the yard with Herr Doktor and raises the steel shovel again and again, higher each time Schmidt hits him with the lash (only leather, of course)._ “I know you can see all of it.”

And therein lies the rub. Erik’s fingers (trembling a bit now; he’s surrounded by shouts of _ausgesieschnet_ and the feeling of the lash coming again and again) cover his mouth and he slinks toward Charles, the anger rising, a small bell on top of a side table crunching with a weak _ping_. “Why am I shallow?”

A murmur, whispered, cracked and only half spoken, but he knows Charles hears it. The other man’s blue eyes slide shut as he speaks, the fire that was pleasant a few moments ago roaring like the _ovens are busy today, Herr Doktor!_

“There is more to you than pain, my friend,” Charles whispers, taking the two steps that separate them. “There is more to you than the past. Can you trust me with it?” _I believe in you. Please show me._

Erik bites the inside of his lip, hard. The blood in his mouth swirls a bit as the rage mounts (metal in the blood, _fascinating, have to remember that_ , he laughs shortly but with a cracking sound), the viscous fluid finally draining down his throat as he opens his mouth, his hands tugging at the bottom of his turtleneck – cashmere, expensive, bought with the blood money he’s stolen from many banks and many many dirty, awful men that he knew were moldering by the side of unnamed roads now.

He jerks the thing over his head, his pale stomach and chest crisscrossed with so many scars now he can’t count them. The top lands somewhere behind him, a soft _plop_ on the ground as the thing slithers to a rest beside the chair he’d sat in. His fancy belt and Italian leather shoes look strange on their own, and Charles, to his credit, does not gasp, does not step back, does not cry out or act afraid or …

His eyes are red and wide, and his hand reaches out slowly as Erik’s arms float at his sides, birds with no roost. If he could fly, he would, away from this examination, but – Charles has to clear his throat before he can speak.

And then he doesn’t. Not outloud.

 _Oh, Erik, my friend._

Soft gentle hands touch Erik’s scars, finding each one, mapping them, remembering where they are, pulling from Erik’s mind who gave them to him and each circumstance. Charles trembles once, and lets Erik push his hands away finally, even as he turns to retrieve his turtleneck. Holding it in weak grip (the Doktor would be so disappointed, _kleine Erik_ , for your weakness)he makes to drag it over his head, suddenly tired, so tired.

 _You don’t need to hide from me, Erik._

“Charles,” he sighs, the name expelled from his lungs like it’s the only thing that matters anymore, “I’m not hiding. I am what he made me. _This_ is me, and I’m not afraid of it.” He touches the worst of the marks, a zigzag line that covers the left collarbone. “I am my master’s creation. And you know how that story ends.”

He holds the sweater to his chest, the remembered pain snapping his spine straight, the weight of the coin in his pocket light and nothing now as it floats toward his hand of what must be its own accord; he hadn’t thought of it.

 _It doesn’t have to._

Charles steps to him and slides fingers through the thick hair at Erik’s nape. A ridge-y bump is there as well, but Charles says nothing, his expression only open and mild. His eyes are still red and wet, and Erik bites the lip he’s torn again. He is _Magneto_ and he can do what he chooses, and what he chooses is to take the revenge he’s been searching for his entire life.

He swallows roughly, the hand at his neck warm and familiar, like an old, soft shirt that isn’t high necked and long sleeved.

 _Trust me._

“I – Charles,” he sighs again. _Weak, small, out of control, under his thumb, the child is powerless save for his anger and his gift._  
Charles’ face is against Erik’s, the cheek soft and scratchy and –

Erik lets Charles kiss him, and he drops the turtleneck onto the ground, his hands going to the other man’s slender shoulders. Warring thoughts and worry and that small, scared child – he grips at Charles’ cardigan, hard, and digs nails into the soft material until he can feel Charles’ skin.

Erik has marks. Charles will too.


End file.
